


we were too young (to know we had everything).

by iammadeofmemories



Series: a love story. [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Canon Compliant, M/M, POV Second Person, Unreliable Narrator, also know that when i say canon compliant i mean the FICTIONALIZED version of it pls and thank u, tho i'd say it's a real ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:47:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 2,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23567065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iammadeofmemories/pseuds/iammadeofmemories
Summary: He is sixteen and you are slowly but surely falling in love with him.or, the Louis&Harry story, all seven parts told through Louis' eyes.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Series: a love story. [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2001049
Comments: 12
Kudos: 43





	1. Sixteen

**Author's Note:**

> I hit a wall with my other story, and so this "Larry story through Louis' eyes" came to be; the idea appeared in my brain and wouldn't let me go 'till I wrote it. I was listening to Walls and Fine Line the entirety of the time it took me to write this, but if you want to make it a little bit more painful, I'd recommend 'Too Young' and 'Golden'.  
> English is still not my first language, I apologise for any mistakes.  
> As usual, I do not know anyone mentioned in this fic. It's fiction my loves, enjoy it as such.
> 
> edit: new title from 'Too Young' by Louis because god it fits so much better and I had a minor breakdown listening to it recently.

He is sixteen and you can’t figure him out.

He’s all long, clumsy limbs and shy smiles and a heart way too big for his body. He wears his emotions on his sleeves and yet you are still not sure what to make about him. 

Weirdly, enough, once you met him (properly met him, the _Oops_ and _Hi_ pushed aside), you don’t think you have clicked with anyone as fast as you have with him. He has warmed his way into your heart and it’s quite obvious he doesn’t plan to leave anytime soon. 

You bring him out of his shell, coaxing him little by little through not-that-well-planned-pranks and timely conversations. You laugh when you see him try to dance, you clap as loud as you can when you hear him sing, the spark in him quite obvious for your eyes; you hold him when he cries, when he asks you in the quietest of voices: _Why don’t they like me?_ You kiss him softly on the top of his head, you sing off-key just to make him laugh. 

(You’d like to protect him from everything and everyone. To wrap yourselves in a fort of blankets and never leave. It will take you a while to realise you can’t protect him from the world, and it will take you even longer to realise he doesn’t actually need you to.)

(It won’t stop you from trying.) 

You mess up his curls, you hug him all the time, you place kisses on his cheek. You stay up late watching movies, listening to music, sharing different stories from your lives. You don’t want to leave him; if this whole boyband stuff doesn’t work out, you think you’ll remain friends. 

For now, you tickle him just to hear him laugh. You stare at him and avoid his gaze when he asks _What are you looking at?_ You shrug, you say you like to see him smile. 

(You don’t know it yet, but he is looking at you too.)

He is sixteen and you’re slowly but surely falling in love with him.


	2. Nineteen

He is nineteen and you can’t believe this is your life.

The ‘boyband stuff’ worked, and quite well. You get to travel around the world doing what you love, surrounded by three of your best mates and a boy you adore with all your heart. You are invited to parties and exclusive events, you get to perform to _sold-out_ stadiums, you walk through red carpets and top the charts everywhere. The whole world seems to know your names. 

(You only wish you could hold hands in public.)

He is beautiful all through it: he is growing, you all are, but he seems to do it with more grace than you’ll ever be able to. Fame suits him well, but you know him, and you know that maybe he doesn’t want all of it, all the people from all different places trying to get a piece of him.

(But he comes to you at the end of the day. It is you who gets the privilege of holding him, of kissing him, _of loving him_.)

You don't want lose him.

(You fear you are going to anyways. You fear you are the one holding him back.)

He kisses that fear out of you, all fierce and passionate and so full of love it nearly sends you down on your back; he whispers _You’re being silly Lou, why would I want anyone else when I have you?_

Your lives keep moving, the rules get stricter, the walls around you only seem to tighten, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter one bit when you get to wake up next to him, when he holds your hand and gives you a kiss on the corner of your mouth, right before going out to the world, because you know you are a team, even if you’re not allowed to present yourselves as one. He is there for you and you are there for him and that’s all that matters. 

He is nineteen and you know he is the love of your life.


	3. Twenty-one

He is twenty-one and you can’t stop arguing. 

He is growing bolder, freer, more desperate. It shows in the length of his hair (you so love running your fingers through it) and in the golden of his boots (you bought him that pair; he kissed you senseless in thanks). He tells you _please, please, let’s do it, and screw everyone else._

You tell him you’re not ready.

(You don’t think you’ll ever be.)

_There are ways_ , he says, green eyes sparkling with excitement. He wants you to say yes. _Lawyers, a new PR manager. We could do it Lou, I’m sure of it. The world’s changing._

And it is, the whole fucking world hasn’t stopped changing since that first audition, since your names started turning heads in the streets, and you’re not sure how much longer you’ll be able to keep up with it. 

You lash out; it is inevitable, and he should have known better than to provoke you when you feel cornered. You answer with brash words filled with just the tiniest amount of poison, icy blue confronting bold green. You tell him _Stop it, Harry, I don’t want to talk about it._ He growls, he leaves. 

(Inside your head, you beg. Beg for him not to leave, beg for understanding, beg for a kinder world where this wouldn’t be necessary.) 

Later that day, after your ears have finally stopped ringing from all the screams (which are great, great, you love performing, and you ignore the wish for mere quiet that wanders at the back of your head), you both stare at each other from the opposite sides of a hotel room in a city whose name you can’t be bothered to remember. 

You undress in silence, an awkward one where it had never been before, and you wonder what the hell is happening to you two. 

And yet, yet, you dare to hope when you get on the bed: you open your arms and he wastes no time in falling right into them, both of you getting into a position that is as comfortable as is familiar. 

(You are reluctant to admit it, but you breathe a little easier when he’s settled right in your arms.)

_I’m sorry_ , he says, and your grip on his waist tightens the tiniest bit. _I don’t want to pressure you, and I don’t want to keep arguing about this._

He stiffens in your hold: tense shoulders, his hand nearly crushing yours and it’s then when the sobs start. 

_I love you_ , you whisper, moving your head to place a light kiss on his temple. _And I’m sorry too._

He is twenty-one and you can’t stop arguing. But you’ll get through, together. As you always have.


	4. Twenty-two

He is twenty-two and you haven’t slept in the same bed for a while.

You are face to face at the kitchen table, and you're trying your best not to cry.

You both know what's coming and yet, yet, neither of you can bring yourselves to say the first word. 

There are two forgotten mugs of tea between you, a half-assed effort to make this look just like a normal conversation, a normal breakfast, a normal morning in your house. 

(But it hasn’t been yours for a while, has it? You barely spend time here anymore, and you know he doesn’t.)

You don’t look at him, you’re too busy looking at the portraits on the walls. He doesn’t look at you, he’s staring at the furniture you chose together. 

(Still, you try to grasp at anything that resembles normality. You don’t want this to end.)

(And here’s the secret: he doesn’t want it to, either.) 

He speaks first. 

(He kissed you first. He asked you out first. It's only normal that he is the one to end things.)

You knew this was going to happen, you knew what words would come out of his mouth, and still it doesn't make it any less painful to hear. He tries to grab your hand, you don’t let him. He says he’ll move, you tell him you don’t care. 

(You care. You care too much.)

But you know this is the right thing. You don’t think you’ll be able to stay sane if you were to continue living the way you both had been the past month: all annoyed stares and cutting words and ears unwilling to listen. You will both go mad, you will both end up hating each other.

(You are not sure if there is something you fear more.)

You ignore him as he packs, but you do hug him one last time. You do kiss him one last time. He tells you to keep in touch, maybe not immediately, but to not become a stranger.

He is twenty-two and you haven’t slept in the same bed for a while. As you see him leave, you don’t think you will again.


	5. Twenty-three

He is twenty-three and you have convinced yourself you hate him. 

Worst thing? You're not exactly sure of _why_.

Part of you is jealous, you think. Of the way he has become freer to be himself now that you’re not there to drag him down with your fears and insecurities, of the way he presents himself on stage, all smiles and weird dance moves. 

(You kid yourself, you’re not jealous. You’re so unbelievably _proud_. You just wish you were there by his side.)

(The french model, though, you can and will admit you’re jealous of her.)

The lads say he asks of you. You beg them not to tell him you ask of him as well. Someone said that is easier to put all the blame on the other person, to make yourself angry at them. Someone said it will make it hurt less. 

(It doesn't work.)

You do listen to the album, though, headphones firmly placed and with absolutely no one around. You bathe in the music, in the choirs and guitars and flourishes that let you know he is _ready_ , ready to show the world what he is truly capable of. 

(A tiny, almost invisible, part of you mourns that, now, you’re not the only one that has access to that part of him. Mourns the loss of the late nights in hotel rooms, some old song he knew by heart quietly playing in the background.)

You try not to overthink the lyrics. You smile through the ones you know are for you, and ignore the ache that settles in your heart through the ones you know are not. You do not cry. You do not. 

He is twenty three and your fingers are trembling when they hit send. _Wanna meet up?_


	6. Twenty-four

He is twenty-four when you see him again. 

The first thing you notice, ridiculously, is that his hair is shorter. 

Realistically, you knew that already. His image hasn’t been precisely private the last year and yeah, you’ve seen photos of him on stage and doing press. You even got around to see that war movie, for no other reason than the girls wanted to see it, but still.

It’s just that, well, he looks different. 

(You do too.)

It’s uncomfortable for all of ten seconds before you’re hugging each other, and it seems your bodies have not forgotten what your minds tried so hard to. 

You ask him about the album. His eyes shine as he explains all about it, and you realise how much you have missed this. 

He asks about yours, and you mumble a response. He asks no more; he understands. 

(It’s not that easy for you. It never has been.)

You talk, and talk, and talk. Of everything and nothing at the same time. You catch up with the other’s lives, in the security and privacy of your own flat. You recall old anecdotes, you make fun of the other lads. You finally say everything anger and sadness prevented you from, you finally acknowledge what went wrong. 

(You think, as you see him, that it probably was always meant to go this way.) 

He cries, at one point. You are sure you do too. 

Hours later, he hugs you and gives you a kiss on the cheek. _Don’t become a stranger Lou_ , he asks. _Promise me this time, yeah?_

You do.

He is twenty-four and you’re learning to love him again.


	7. Twenty-six

He is twenty-six, nail polish on his nails and white pearls around his neck. You haven’t properly spoken in months, other than the occasional text of congratulations regarding a single or an album. But it’s okay. You both know you’ll be there if the other needs you. You’re friends, you think, and it may be better this way. 

You like seeing him perform, as you always have, the place where you know he was born to be, but now he looks happier, without anything weighing him down. You see his smile when the audience sings back at him _do you know who you are?_ and you see his relief when he answers _I do now._

(You think you do, too.)

He is twenty-six, and he’s as free as he cares to be and you’re happy for him. You really are.

He is twenty-six, you’re about to be twenty-nine, and you have finally, _finally_ , learned to let him go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you reached this part, I offer you a couple of tissues and a hug. Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> find me at tumblr: goldenachilles


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